Lying on Christmas

I lie.  Not usually but sometimes.  Sometimes it really was me that ate the cookie.  Sometimes I didn't really forget the task, I just didn't want to do it.  Sometimes,  I used to think my favorite color was red but then my sister-in-law got this groovy phone cover that is a pale aqua and I'm afraid I like that color more now.  I try not to, but simply put, sometimes I lie.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I had said a pretty big doozy of a lie last night.  I told my family that there was nothing they could do to make "this better".  I just needed to sob as I saw my brothers get the "Dad" Christmas gift that would have been my husband's too.  I wept when I saw my two little boys unable to give their Dad some fancy way to barbeque while honoring the Cowboys. I cried without my sweetheart's shoulder to snuggle against as we opened the traditional Grandma jammies.  I felt devastated, lonely and broken.

I totally and completely sunk into my misery enduring my first Christmas eve in this new widowland.  Even when my Mom's eyes filled with tears,  even when my niece wrote me a sweet card reminding me how much we are loved, even when my son wrapped his arms around me, even when my sister-in-law held me when I cried, even when my nephew shared "Uncle Jelly Beans" with me, I thought they couldn't do anything to help. Nothing would make this better.

I lied.

I woke up this morning celebrating the birth of a dear sweet Baby realizing the error in my ways.  I realize that being here with these people right now is the only help I need.  They got snow to fall at just the right time to make things better.  They helped my son put a Christmas toy together to make things better.  They laugh at all of Leonard memories to make things better.  They have a 7 year old that thinks my 13 year old is the "most awesomest" to make things better.  They light a candle in remembrance of one of the greatest men who lived to make things better.  They have a 4-month-old squishy baby to make things better.  They make things better.

I'm so glad for the whisperings from across the veil between this world and the next that helped me see I'm a liar.  The nice thing is, these people, here, right now love me even when I lie.  And that is the best Christmas gift they could ever give.  They make things better.

It's everywhere

The door swings open and the doctor says "It is a cancer" even before the door finds its fullest extension.  Typing those words now makes my hands sweat. Even 26 weeks later.  How do '37', 'just played basketball', 'has 2 boys' and 'cancer' all go in the same sentence.   It still shocks, confuses, devastates me.

We went from healthy to pain so quickly.  Shortly after we got the news we ended up in the emergency room not knowing if that is what terminal patients should do but hoping for some relief. And it was in the middle of that night shift when we learned what cancer does.  It spreads.  Quickly, pervasively and everywhere.  As I looked at the love of my life asleep on a hospital bed, knocked out by some concoction pumping into his arm, I couldn't believe we hadn't known.  We hadn't seen the cells moving, finding home in his lungs, his bones, his liver.  We didn't know. We couldn't see.

It seems the same with grief.

Tonight, the coach gathered the young baseball players together to let them know one of their own has lost their father to cancer.  (Same exact story, liver, young children, and weeks between diagnosis and death).  I know there wasn't a door swinging open on the baseball field but I'm sure the words hit my son as quickly as they did his dad and I months ago.  Now the question is "How can '11', 'baseball', 'Christmas' and 'down-on his-knees sad' go in one sentence?"    It still shocks, confuses, devastates me.

My son went from happily throwing a ball in from center field to sitting in a van unable to walk inside due to his tears.  Seeing it happen to another family was too much for his system.  I don't need the emergency room doctor to explain to me how the grief has spread.  How, without me seeing it, this pervasive sadness has reached my son on the baseball field, touched him while he sits under a Christmas tree, and grabbed him while he sleeps.  It spreads.  Quickly, pervasively and everywhere.  As I watch this little boy resting on the couch, knocked out by how completely he misses his hero, I completely understand.  I have seen the sadness moving, finding home in his heart, his head, his soul.  I do know.  I can see.

Cancer taught me that much.  I can see the same metastasizing beast in grief.  But this time I have a chance to fight.  I wasn't given that gift last time.  Not this time.  I plan on fighting grief so that it doesn't completely overtake our system sucking the energy of life into its devious alternate plan.

Yes, my little precious 11 year old will cry.  My boy-turning-man, 13 year old will scream.  I will sob as I ache for my partner.  Those around us will watch as grief reaches into each system. Until our hearts, head and souls are suffocated by the sadness.

And then we will fight it.  We will remember what a gift it is to bear his name.  To be owned by him.  To be watched by him.  We will fight by being like him.  By sneaking cookies in church.  By playing sports until we sweat.  By having quiet whispers reminding us of moments we had with him. 

This time we will win knowing we only have to be separated from him once.  Someday soon he will meet us, gather us in his arm, whisk us away to the heavenly mansion he has prepared for us and get back to water gun fights and tag playing.  We will win.

Indescribably happy

Leonard preferred to be with people.  He could have quiet alone time when battling/enjoying his insomnia but for the most part, he preferred to have someone with him.  In fact, the night before we got married, his dear friend Mike took me aside.  He warned me that Leonard didn't self-entertain well.  I don't know if it came from being one of 8 kids all born very close but it was true.  He loved being with people.

And I loved being with him.

Another thing Leonard loved was to cut wood.  I think he loved the process almost as much as the finished product.  He loved planning the cuts, setting up his machinery and finding the most accurate way to get his desired results.  He would spend hours in his garage shop even in the dead of a Phoenician summer.  In fact, one of our favorite family memories is when a very young Kirby wrote a To-Do list for his Dad that included:  1.  cut wood and 2.  get sweaty.

Cutting wood made him happy.

And like pretty much everything in his life, he liked to share the activity.  He would set up a folding chair and invite me out to just be with him.  I would work side by side with him getting him his needed tools, listening to his plans, giving my opinion and helping where I could.

Truth be known, I didn't really like it.

I didn't like the noise, the dirt, the mess.  I didn't like the heat.  I didn't like how patient you had to be with the process.  I really only liked the finished product and I wanted it done and done quickly!  I don't have what it takes to be a master woodworker.

But what kept me out there and made me look forward to each of our projects was how much it made him happy.  His joy was infectious.  I loved the twinkle in his eye when he got a cut so perfect that the union of the two pieces would be seamless.  I loved how he planned and talked and reviewed each step.  I loved how much pride a well executed day in the shop made him.  I was happy because he was so darn happy.

And now I'm faced again with a process I don't really like.  I don't like being a widow.  I don't like solo parenting his children.  I don't like missing him so much.  I don't like the patience required of mastering this earthly existence.  I really only like the finished product and I want it done now.

Yet, truth be known, I'm pretty sure heaven makes him happy.  If I believe there is a paradisiacal existence with God after this life, I have to believe he is happy now.  Indescribably happy, I've heard it called.  I have to remember to be infected by his joy.  I have to remember what his face looks like when he smiles.  I have to be happy watching him be happy.

The thought of his joy brings me peace.  The thought of his joy helps me be patient with this process. The thought of his joy helps be emulate his workmanship as I finish my time here on earth. The thought of his joy just makes me happy, darn happy, indescribably happy.